I’ve been reading a lot lately.
It’s pretty much all I’ve been doing since the beginning of January. You see, I started the new year with a vague idea of several unfinished books (and craft projects, but that is another post for another day, maybe never) that I had lying around, and decided that my New Year’s Resolution would be to “clear the cache.”
I love reading one book at a time, curling up under a blanket and devouring it in big, pagey gulps, and then setting it aside and then moving on to the next delicious morsel. Or I should say I used to love reading books in this way because that habit has been growing rust in a garden shed ever since I started an English degree, lo, these many years ago, when I was forced by necessity to have several things on the go at once. I remember longing for a return to the old habits, but, alas. It was never to be again.
Anyway. I started the year with this foggy goal in mind and set out to write a list of the books that I had lying around unfinished. And my master list had 11 titles. ELEVEN. How did this happen?! I hadn’t set these books aside because I hated them. I can’t do that, no matter who tells me it’s okay to set aside a book that makes me want to tear my face off from the wanton misogyny and a general feeling of antipathy concerning all. The. Characters (I’m looking at you Game of Thrones). I spent most of the eighties squirming around on the carpet with an open colouring book and my dad intoning “finish what you start” when what I really wanted to do was leave Ariel mostly black-and-white and go watch DuckTales. So now I have a pathological fear of leaving things undone. Thanks for the unshakable lesson, Dad.
So these books were never abandoned. They were set aside with a full and honest intention to return to them. Some were started for book clubs and launches. Some got set aside when I was working on finishing my novel back in November. Some are about writing, and were put aside when the writing started. A few I started reading for NetGalley and then didn’t finish in time to review them at release (oops). Some I had rebelliously started for pure literary enjoyment, and those got put aside in favour of books I had a responsibility to read, like library books, which were returned when they couldn’t be renewed anymore. There is a whole tangled web of reasons why all these books were started and not finished.
I began to read. This morning I finished the fourth book on my list (a re-read of Pride and Prejudice for a book club), but as I worked through it and shifted books from the pile, more books turned up, and then I had this (admittedly mostly one-sided) conversation with a friend of mine:
I am so ashamed.
But I’m reading on. I have one book in paper, one on my Kobo, and one on the Kindle app on my phone so I can read it while I’m waiting for the pasta to cook. I’m not buying anything new, or borrowing anything more than what is already on the holds list for me at the library. If one of those comes in, it jumps the queue, but then I go back to finishing all those half-read books. And then maybe, some day soon, I can curl up with a book and know that it’s the only one.